(metem)Psychosis
by I'm Nova
Summary: Redbeard just can't leave Sherly behind. He's allowed to be reborn - as a human, ever. And he's just as eager to play. Much might change. I'm currently unsure where this will go.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. And I have no excuses for this. It is the love child of His last vow and Dear Spangley. I know that I should have killed this in my womb, but I couldn't. So now you get..._

(metem)Psychosis

Prologue

He knew what was happening. Of course he knew. He was a clever boy. Everyone said so.

They were going to put him down. It was the kindest thing to do. He was in pain. He was...ruined.

If he could have talked, he'd have told them – with all due respect, of course – not to be idiots. He could take pain, and brokenness.

What he couldn't bear was to forsake his Sherlock. His boy. The one he played with. The one he cuddled. The one he comforted when Mycroft was being a cold-hearted bastard. Sherly would get lonely without him. Were they all blind?

Alas, Redbeard couldn't very well make his point known. No matter how clever, his inter-species communication skills were still sorely limited. No one understood him. He only whimpered as the needle pierced his vein and the Phenobarbital flooded his system. Euthanasia. The "kind thing", they called it. There was nothing kind in forcing him to let go of the life – of the people – he loved. He died full of regret.

He expected nothing. Dreamless sleep, perhaps – that's what they had said. 'Put him to sleep.'

He didn't foresee the soft, compassionate voice who, after the deed, asked, "Why so sad, little one?"

Redbeard couldn't see the speaker. Not that it mattered. "I didn't want to leave," he admitted honestly. It wasn't like he'd get in trouble for telling an unwanted truth. They couldn't do him any worse than what had already happened. "Sherly – he's going to be sad, and so lonely now...That's just wrong. I was the only one he had to play with. He won't have me to comfort him. He doesn't like going to his parents for that. So tell me, whoever you are, how could I ever be fine with leaving him?"

"Do you want to go back? I can send you back, to be reborn. If you're really destined to be together, he'll find you again," the god – Redbeard supposed – offered.

"Um, could you do something else instead?" he countered. (Might as well make the most of the situation, right?)

"I can probably fulfil whatever you wish. Ask away, lovely one," the voice replied.

'Probably'? Not all-powerful then. Likely not God, then? Angel?...As long as he got what he wanted, who cared? "Can I be a human? I think that Sherly needs a playmate of his own kind. He hasn't got any of those. Mycroft is too fat and boring," he pleaded.

"If you want. It's very thoughtful of you, you know. You care for Sherlock very much, don't you?" the kind one remarked.

"He's mine," Redbeard stated simply.

"Well then, you'll be reborn soon," the voice announced.

"Wait!" the dog interjected hurriedly. "Will I be a pup – sorry, a newborn?"

"Yes, of course."

"So I'll have with Sherly more or less the age difference he has with his brother," Redbeard reasoned.

"And that is a problem because?" the voice queried.

"What if Sherly finds me annoying and not worthy to play with because I'm too young for him? What if he behaves toward me the way Mycroft does towards him? Can you help with that?" They were very sensible worries, after all.

"A little time manipulation to make you more or less the same age as your friend. Don't see why not. Anything else?" the god/angel/whatever inquired.

"Oh no. I'll take it from there," Redbeard assured. He was sure he would do splendidly as long as he could meet Sherlock again.

"Oh, and of course I'll make sure you keep your memories intact, otherwise there'd be no point. Don't worry. You'll be back into the world soon. Then you'll be on your own. Don't waste your chance," the creature warned.

As if he would.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. BBC and Conan Doyle share them. _

Redbeard should really have specified more things. Bargained better. But he'd told that he wanted to stay with Sherly. Being stranded in an entirely different country even seemed like a cruel act for Someone who cared for a dog's happiness. But it was a supernatural being's sense of humour, he supposed.

Redbeard's breed had been called Irish Setter, even if he'd never seen Irish soil. Well, now he had. James – Jim, really, nobody called him James unless he was in trouble – was born in Dublin. Counterproductive as it was. But then he relaxed. He was – would be still by Sherlock's side for a while. Time manipulation was a wonderful thing. He only had to find a way to make his parents move some time from now. Or maybe simply run from home. But he was clever, he'd find a way back to Sherlock's side. Or make one.

Until then, he could enjoy his second childhood. Mom was sweet, and a great storyteller. With the right puppy look, she could often be persuaded to read him a story. And what marvellous tales they were! Knights and dragons, magic and adventures. Yes, Sherly played pirates more often than not, but surely he would be amenable to other games. Wouldn't want Sherlock to grow bored after all.

It could have been a blissful time, all things considered, if only he hadn't missed his friend so much that he ached. And if everyone else hadn't been so unspeakably dull in comparison. He'd told them, at the time. They hadn't liked it, being less than his imaginary friend. That's how people saw Sherlock at the time. His imaginary friend, and with the weird name to boot. He had never bothered to explain things in detail, after all. He didn't want people to think less of him because he'd been non-human before.

At the start, people hadn't minded much. But the longer he held onto Sherlock, the more his parents had grown upset, while his peers – not that they really were, or that they mattered at all – mocked and despised him. When his parents had brought him to a shrink, he knew that something had to be done. He couldn't let them drug him into forgetting his life's calling. He would hold onto Sherlock – of course he would – but Jim didn't mention him anymore.

He started by deceiving his therapist, saying what he wanted to hear, and that got him wondering. This one was supposed to notice things like that. Was really everyone so easy to trick? And what exactly could he gain by manipulating them? It was something that bore experimenting. He was sure that Sherlock would have agreed with him.

A lot of things, it turned out. If he pretended to be what others wanted him to be, told them what they wanted to hear – which was pathetically easy to determine – he was praised. Loved. And pretty much everything he asked for that still projected the image of him they wanted to see would be happily conceded. His fairytales books were definitely in that category.

And how convenient it was that adults and children wanted different things. The grown-ups were wrapped around his tiny little finger already, and wasn't it amusing. Children were more distrustful of him, because he'd spurned them first. And really, many of them weren't worth his time anyway. But some – some he almost smelled out as kindred souls, and they were so eager to go along with his suggestions for fun.

The instinct to hunt and tear down small creatures had never disappeared, but now he had a small pack of his own that would do these things with – nay, for – him. They had to be careful, not to be caught, but when he planned they never were. His associates looked up to him for that. He gave all kind of 'fun' suggestions – not just about hunting, about creating small havoc too – and then they snickered seeing people scurry around and get upset over their actions.

Small things, everyone of these, mind you. But the children with a more sadistic streak soon learned to go to Jim to organize their pastimes. And the great thing – the one that made Jim snicker endlessly all on his own – was that no one suspected anything. Not just the adults. Most children that weren't in his circle saw him still only as the loser who held too long on a fake friend. And he let them think so. Wasn't it humorous?


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: nothing mine. So boring to repeat it!_

When Jim was 13, Fate found him. Jim embraced it wholeheartedly. Even though he didn't realise that it would change his life forever, a crossing over a horizon that he didn't initially see. He was simply acting out of instinct. More in tune with his deeper self than he had been in a long time. Not acting. Not pleasing others. Just getting done what needed to be done.

Redbeard had already been dead two years and Jim still had not managed to navigate his way back to Sherlock. Engineering a move was harder than he'd thought. If he ran away his parents would search for him and when they found him they'd be sure to do their damnedest to separate him from Sherly. Even if his parents realized that he had searched for the other boy all his life, they would never understand (they couldn't possibly do so) nor care. They'd just consider Sherly as the reason for his running away and hence hate him. Jim was convinced. The option wasn't viable.

But soon the sport's championship for schools would take place in London. It was enough for Jim to try with all his soul to be on a team his school would be sending there. Any team. Even the swimming team, unpopular as that option was. But it was the only sport he was good at (very good, in fact), and anyway, it would help him develop in a well balanced way. He didn't need to become brawny. He had his underlings for that. Jim was fired up (giddy with excitement and anticipation, really) and it showed. The teacher considered him a fine choice in order to boost everyone's moral.

All that giddiness (chanting 'Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock' inside his head) made him careless. The first free moment he had, he slipped away and beelined for Sherlock's usual specimen gathering spot (also his play spot), hoping his friend's habits hadn't changed in the past two years. Blissfully, they had not. Sherly was there. He was there! But – then, suddenly, Jim wasn't quite sure how to approach him. Sherlock didn't really like other children (the reverse was true, too – poor Sherly) and there was every chance he might pronounce Jim boring before he could string together a coherent sentence. He needed something that would make an impression. Something great. Something not-boring.

"Hi Sherly, I'm Redbeard," would just look like a mockery. A particularly unwarranted and vicious one, at that.

"Can I be your friend?" would either be deemed boring or make Sherlock question why. And "I was born for it," would not be an acceptable answer. He couldn't explain everything, and he'd look like a madman. Or a creep. Or a creepy madman.

There was always the botulinum toxin he had gotten from Philip, whose father was a plastic surgeon, to use on the wrinkly naked cat of Mrs. Pengelley (the thing was even more an abomination than his brethren). Once he got hold of it, he had become strangely reluctant to part with it and postponed his prank, always keeping the poison on himself (he slept with it, even). It's sheer destructive magnitude was greater than anything he'd ever possessed. The feeling was almost sensual. He would give it to Sherlock, though. He would give anything to Sherlock.

"I have poison. Do you want it?" might be what he needs, but that would make him look dangerous, and he didn't want Sherlock to label him so, lest people (aka Mycroft) decide that he wasn't worthy of being at Sherlock's side.

In the end, Jim spent all his free time stalking Sherlock, never building up courage enough to talk to him. He didn't notice anything or anyone else. He surely didn't notice Carl Powers tailing him. Under any other circumstance he would have because Carl smelled like a threat, however faint. If Carl had lived in Dublin, Jim would have naturally recruited him in his pack. If that had been the case, the young boy would have known that Jim was better than him and would never have tried to cross him.

Instead, Carl was from the Sussex team and fancied himself an alpha. Compared to Jim, he was a mi (at most, and being charitable about it), but he was too stupid to realize instinctively what he was dealing with. The lack of such an instinct is never good for any creature. It always gets the unfortunate being hurt or worse. In Carl's case, it was definitely worse. For him, at least.

Unaware of the possible consequences, Powers had quietly followed Jim. With the Irish boy's physique and quiet attitude, Carl had pegged him for easy prey, and a bit of bullying on the side would keep Carl in good spirits. Ensuring he had one less serious competitor too, if he managed to scare the other boy enough, and wouldn't that a nice bonus? Not to mention that Jim's obvious eagerness gave him hope that perhaps there was fun to be had – beyond the bullying. Jim's star struck eyes were something precious to behold to Powers.

When Jim returned from his covert Sherlock trailing, he was subjected to a veritable barrage of public, very humiliating, and completely idiotic homophobic slurs (and it was simply indecent how easily the other boys went along with that). He was asked if he was a good little slut or if he was saving himself for the guy he was in love with. It was unfounded (he loved Sherly, he wasn't in love – he didn't think so) but Jim didn't explain. His tormentors didn't have enough brain cells among all of them to make even one mildly passable brain. They'd never get it.

Still, Jim could have let it slide. He didn't like it – it was positively distasteful – but it wasn't as if Jim cared about his reputation among the people gathered there. Much less what his team thought of him. Neither were part of his pack. But then Carl Powers slipped. He insulted Sherlock. For a moment, a single moment, Jim wished to be built like some of his underlings, powerful enough to flatten Carl like the bug he was. Or even to be a dog again, so he could fillet his lying throat and drink his blood (they'd probably put him down again, though). Instead, he simply walked past everyone, without a word. His hand almost crushed the botulin vial within its white-knuckled hold. He vowed to make Carl Powers realize that he'd just picked a fight with the wrong boy.

Two days later, Carl Powers, young promise of Sussex swimming, had a fit and drowned in the swimming pool. His beloved shoes disappeared.

It was a necessity, of course. But a beloved one. He loved that tale where once the dragon was killed, someone else tried to claim the princess, but the hero had cut out the dragon's tongue proving he was the rightful dragon-slayer and thereby being justly rewarded. These shoes might be useful in a similar fashion one day. Besides, it was nice to have a memento. Hunters did it all the time, particularly with noxious beasts.

His first human kill. His life became marvellous after it. The police arrived, of course, and Jim should have been scared. Instead, he was mildly thrilled. The risk was giving him a lovely feeling. Pitifully short, mind you, because DI Jones and his team were clearly dim-witted. How could they find the answer when they never even managed to ask the right questions?

But then, oh, it was heaven. Because Sherlock came, sneaking in, trying to attract a policeman's attention, and asking the right questions. It was then that Jim realized it. He might not have said a word to Sherly – he still didn't, because Sherlock would so not give him the time of the day now – but they were playing once again. They were playing cops and robbers (well, murderers) with Jim's future at stake and it was such a rush. It was the best game ever. Better than any common, and ultimately boring game they could have played. If he won this round (which it looked like he would, because nobody wanted to hear Sherlock out, the idiots) he would want to play it again. Absolutely. He was hooked.

Dejected, Sherlock gave up and left. Jim never accosted him. He missed his chance again. Oh well. He would find another way to become friends. One better pondered.

_P.S. About the 'mi' remark. The packs of dogs, wolves and other related species have a precise social hierarchy. Men use the Greek alphabet to describe it, with alpha (α), the first letter, to indicate the leader (or the leading male-female couple, who reproduce) down to omega (ω), the last letter, for the one who obeys everyone else. Mi (μ) is the twelfth letter out of twenty six, so Carl would be mid-rank, and still with plenty people better than him beyond Jim. _


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: Nothing mine. Conan Doyle and BBC share the rights. I just play with them._

After his London trip, Jim was busy. So many things to do, so little time. Days were gone before he knew what he'd done with them. Months followed suit. Years, too. One day he blinked and wondered where his teen years had gone. Blinked again, and since that fateful again when he discovered his calling, a decade had past. At least being busy meant that he had little time to be bored. A blessing, that – the highest grace he received since he's been allowed a second chance, indeed. What has he done, you ask?

Discovered sex, for one. Apparently he came back from London sexy. Beaming with an inner radiance that attracted people like moths, if only he bothered to focus it towards them. Add to that his acting prowess (he can be anything: devilish, innocent, adorable, confident), there was no one Jim couldn't get if he fancied them. Ironically, it turned out Carl Powers was at least half-right in his accusations (not that it's sensible to accuse anyone about their preferences). Jim didn't mind the gender of his partners, he just enjoyed the game.

Manipulating people, making the unfortunate soul fall utterly for him – and consequently into his own hands – obtaining favours they wouldn't normally do, was his forte. He was fickle, naturally, leaving a number of broken hearts in his wake. It wasn't that he actually fell in love with any of them. Nobody was wonderful enough to hold his interest for long. He was just playing, and no actor can be expected to play the same role too long. Of course he dumped them (never the reverse, oh no.) The only true turn off for him was major stupidity– a quota of idiocy was, after all, inevitable. No matter the game, the bet, he'd never ever be able to seduce the pretty ditz type. He wasn't finicky about who he bedded, but he had standards.

Then there was the matter of keeping his parents, relatives, and generally older people who might make a fuss about his true interests blind and happy. Jim wasn't going to give up his place as daddy's good boy. It brought too many perks. And really, now wasn't the time to 'come out' and be disowned. There would never be a time for that, in all probability. So, he worked to be everyone's favourite. And honestly, it was easy. "Jim has so much potential," "He's so clever," "He's so dynamic." These were the things adults said about him.

Of course, there was the 'problem' that he changed career plans every six months or so. But it was only because he could become anything if he set his heart on it. He was just trying out his options before he had to choose definitively. He was still young, after all. There was no rush to settle down. His resume had everything. Never a month when he wasn't doing something, whether it was studying (from computer science to Japanese) or working. Sometimes both. Of course, it didn't help him to settle the fact that he was so smart. What would take others years, he assimilated in weeks. He never bothered with beginner courses. A couple weeks of self study and he was ready for the advanced levels.

If Jim had been simply a genius, his parents would have worried about how he could have friends. Extraordinary intellect often brought on others people's envy and hatred. But occasionally he'd invited a few boys over,and they'd been unfailingly polite. It proved that not only Jim had friends. He was friend with good lads. So, you see? "Jim really is perfect." "We are so lucky." "He seems to have skipped the rebellious phase." His parents' words, now and again. After all, Jim didn't listen to vulgar music (you can't really complain about Beethoven). He didn't frequent weird company. He didn't do drugs. ("Oh God no; not Jim.")

About his working experience, it was the same. He didn't settle, but he always had some sort of very reasonable argument to change jobs. Not just, "I'm bored with this," though that sentence was heard more than once. The boy picked up a new language in a month (actually less but he couldn't find shorter courses, and he liked having the certification). Routine bored him. It was to be expected.

The only time he never mentioned being bored was when he worked as a freelance actor – dad reckoned he just loved the applause – but even that didn't last. Mom was so happy, when he picked her maiden name for his pseudonym. Richard was chosen as homage to his dad's favourite actor – Sir Attenborough – so both his parents were flattered by the stage name. But like all his endeavours, even his stage name and acting eventually ended.

For Jim, a job was no more than a cover for his true calling. His pack. The game he so looked forward to. He needed to become better. He needed to become worthy of Sherlock. Able to create something fun. Artistic, too. Year after year, he upgraded. His pack left behind those too coward to follow his plots. He acquired new, better men (and women; let's not forget the ladies, they can be wonderfully vicious). Before he had had simple thugs. Now Jim finally could start with true crime.

Gangs already at work tried to crush his pack, but Jim showed them that he could do everything they did, only better and safer. The police always – always – was stumped on Jim's cases. Jim advertised what he could do, and offered people a choice. Did they really want to work alone and risk getting caught? Or would they follow him and have things go smoothly if only they could manage to obey?

Of course, some still didn't like the price for the advantages Jim could bring. They fought him. Well, he had tales and myths to take inspiration from. These people didn't just die. Oh no. They were found in pieces all over their turf. Or flayed. Or otherwise slaughtered in creative, flashy ways. He wanted to make an impression, after all.

Slowly but surely, his business grew. New lines of work opened up all the time, and Jim excelled in every last one, whether it was human trafficking, drugs, crime hits, or whatever else you can imagine. He was always dealing with men, after all, and they were all too easy to predict and manipulate. If it wasn't for the game to come, he'd have become bored with this too. Instead, he pressed on. He became the top dog of every crime lord out there. A celebrity in his own field. If secrecy wasn't so pivotal to their business, he'd have acquired a loud fanbase. He became loved. Hated. Feared. Wasn't it the best?


End file.
